


When life gives you lemons

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Also lemons, Artist Clarke, F/M, Fluff, History Nerd Bellamy, How many lemon references can I get away with, Lemons, Lemons in the lemon orchard, Mutual Pining, feelgood fluff, fruit fetish, oblivious idiots in love, summer fun, summer loving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29092539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Bellarke modern AU. Bellamy and Clarke spend a glorious summer together working on a lemon farm in Italy - and hooking up along the way. Clarke is there to get away from it all back home, and Bellamy is working to pay his way through seeing the sights of Roman history. It turns out there's more than only lemons between them when she joins him on a trip to Rome.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 44
Kudos: 144
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	When life gives you lemons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burninghoneyatdusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninghoneyatdusk/gifts).



> Welcome to another fic written for 100 fics for BLM. Here's a modern AU where Bellamy and Clarke meet during a summer working on a lemon farm. Yes, it's ridiculous. Yes, I had a bunch of fun writing it. I also spent several hours of my life I'll never get back looking up things like the Naples metro and the Vatican museum, so please try not to hold it against me if I've made any glaring errors! Thanks to Zou for betaing it. I apologise profusely for buying into the "Abby is a terrible mother" trope - I normally try to avoid it but it seemed like the obvious way of making this plot work.
> 
> I hope the lovely recipient of this fic enjoys this. She's an absolute hero, running this awesome initiative and somehow managing to find time to be a super supportive person along the way.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> Content note: undermining mother lurking in the background but we don't meet her in person.

**Do you like lemons? Great! Prompt more lemons and support a great cause at<https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co/>**

Clarke isn't here for the lemons. She's not here for the wide open sky, the deep blue sea. She's not here for history or culture or even for the money.

She's just here because it isn't home.

She finished her fine art degree just this summer. She couldn't face the prospect of several months at home while her mother asked her whether she was sure her life choices had been wise and asked her when, exactly, she intended to find gainful employment. So she did what any logical young woman would do, under the circumstances.

She ran to a lemon farm in rural Italy.

It's a nice lemon farm, as lemon farms go, she supposes. It's not as if she's seen many of them in her time. But it's nestled on the Amalfi coast and although she's not strictly here for the scenery, she has to admit that it won't be a hardship to work on some paintings of the landscape while she's here. That's not why she chose it, though. She chose it because they were advertising in the US for young English speakers, cheap to employ, in order to show tourists around the lemon orchards. And because there's a very wide ocean between here and home in LA.

So it is that she's almost smiling, as she settles into her dorm room and unpacks her suitcase. She's feeling pretty perky, as she makes the acquaintance of Harper and Raven and Emori, who are to be her dorm mates.

She still doesn't have a clue what she's doing with her life. But at least there is no one here who will care about that.

….

Bellamy thinks it is fascinating that the economy of this area relies so heavily on lemon tourism, of all things. He wasn't really aware that was a thing that even existed, until he saw the advert and signed up for this scheme. It's an interesting concept, really. That people would want to visit a lemon farm on holiday because this region advertises itself as the home of lemons. It strikes him as a rather fragile basis for an economy, and he knows all about precarious finances.

He's not here to study the modern society of the area so much as the ancient culture, of course. This is his big chance to come to Europe and pay his way through a trip around some Roman sites he has long wished he could see in person. So really he should just shut up and drink the damn lemonade.

It's his first night on the farm. Orientation and training start tomorrow. And tonight there is a social. An _icebreaker_ \- there's a word he's always disdained. Eight young people sitting down to a meal provided by their employers and drinking, of course, lemonade.

He's the oldest one here, as far as he can tell. Most of the others are almost kids, taking a break before college. There are a couple of recent graduates like him, but he gets the feeling none of them had to delay college for the sake of a younger sister.

And then there's Clarke. She's a recent graduate, but very _un_ like him. While the rest of them are in denim shorts, she wears a dress that is rather too nice - and shows off her figure rather too well, he thinks. Everyone else talks about their career plans or their families, or even both, but she remains stubbornly silent.

Perhaps she thinks she's too good to chat with the likes of them.

He wonders what she's doing here. Why would a young woman who is obviously from a comfortable background want to spend her summer giving guided tours of a lemon farm?

He doesn't want to find out, of course. He couldn't care less what her story is.

But the thing is, he's something of a collector of stories. It's instinct to him, to tell a tale or listen to a legend. That's why he has this passion for studying ancient cultures, after all.

But he doesn't care about Clarke's story. Not in the slightest. Even if she does look stunning in that ridiculous midnight-blue dress.

….

Clarke presents herself for orientation bright and early the following morning - by which she means that she is five minutes ahead of schedule, naturally. Bellamy is the only other person at the meeting point. That's a fact which doesn't surprise her as much as it perhaps should on such short acquaintance - he seems the prompt, reliable type.

"How are you settling in?" She asks. She figures that's a fairly unobjectionable question.

He disagrees, apparently. He scowls at her. "Fine." He answers shortly.

Nevertheless, she persists. Tenacity is one of her better qualities, she likes to think. "Have you done anything like this before?"

"Spent a summer in Europe?" He snorts. "No. But I'm sure you have."

"That's not what I meant." She says mildly. She doesn't know what his problem is, but she refuses on principle to be riled up by anyone so attractive. "I meant have you worked in tourism or hospitality before? I never have. I'm in need of some tips. I know Harper used to be a waitress and I swear I've been hanging off her every word." She gives a little self-deprecating laugh.

OK, maybe it's more a _nervous_ laugh. The point is, she's beginning to realise her fine art degree has not equipped her for this.

Damn it. What if her mother was _right_?

He shrugs. "I bartended my way through college."

"Oh, cool. What did you study?"

He frowns at her. She thinks back over the conversation, tries to figure out what she did wrong. Last time she checked, it's pretty acceptable to ask someone you're obliged to work with all summer what they studied. But he looks really rather surly, and she cannot make head nor tail of it.

"Ancient History." He bites out.

She nods. "Cool. I guess this is perfect for you, right? You can go see the sights on your days off. That's a pretty smart move."

Just for a moment, he brightens. "That's the plan, yeah."

She takes that slight improvement in civility and runs with it. "What are you hoping to see first?"

"I'm trying to figure out how much of the Bay of Naples I can see in one day off." He says, beginning to grin slightly. "I figure if I start with Pompeii I'll be stuck in a queue all day."

"But you want to start with Pompeii anyway?" She guesses. "I would, in your position. I'd want to go fangirl over the most famous sites even if it's not the most efficient way to see everything." She likes a plan as much as the next person, but she knows there are just some occasions when the heart wants what the heart wants.

To her surprise, he nods and starts to smile more genuinely. "Yeah. It's exactly that. I guess - I've spent half my life dreaming of being able to come on a trip like this. And now I'm here it's hard to make myself wait and space it out sensibly."

"I can see that. That's - that's actually why I loved college so much, I think. I'd spent my whole life wanting to make art instead of live up to other people's expectations of me. Once I settled on my course choice and gave myself permission to do what I wanted I went a little overboard." She says, laughing lightly.

"You're an artist?"

"Do I count as an artist if I'm unemployed?" She asks, without much hope of an answer. "All I know is I have a tiny student flat where you can't move for canvases."

"Are you hoping to take in some of the galleries and museums in your time off?" He asks. It's remarkable, she thinks. It's almost like he's starting to show an interest in her life.

If she'd known all it took was for her to show a little support for his excitement about the history of the area, she might have tried that to begin with, she thinks a little sourly.

"Most of the big museums are in Rome." She says with a shrug. "I want to go check out Naples if I get time."

"I'm actually heading to Rome for a few days when our contracts here end." Bellamy offers brightly. "I'm saving up so I can eat while I'm there." He jokes.

At least, she thinks it's a joke. She's beginning to get the impression that he's rather careful with money - and that perhaps there are some very good reasons for that, back home. She wonders whether that has anything to do with his odd attitude towards her. She tries not to advertise her background, but she's not about to pretend to be someone she's not.

"That sounds cool. I can just imagine you running round the city like an excited kid." She teases.

That's the first time she sees Bellamy Blake give a full and true smile. And she finds herself struck, all at once, by the thought that she'd rather it wasn't the last.

….

The thing is, Bellamy doesn't want to like Clarke.

She's rich and spoiled. She tries too hard. He gets the feeling she probably has her contact details stitched into her luggage elastic, you know?

So he can't explain why he pairs up with her for orientation. He can't rationalise the fact that he follows her around as they practise the tour route. And he sure as hell can't explain why he invites her to sit down and sample the complimentary lemonade in the break room with him.

It's a silly thing, but he thinks she might be the first person who has ever genuinely shown some enthusiasm and understanding for this scheme of his to work and earn himself a trip to the sites he has been studying for years. The students he studied alongside, the academics he has applied to work alongside, all seemed a little snobby, and asked if he had really never been to Europe as a child. His mother looked worried, when he told her about his idea, and Octavia seemed basically happy for his excitement but honestly just didn't care.

And then this woman he barely knows got it right from the start, somehow.

Maybe that's why he tries to change the focus, when they sit down in the break room. He's not sure he can cope with another conversation about himself. He wants this to be all about her - if only so he can remind himself quite how many faults she has.

"Do you plan to work on some art while you're here?" He asks. Honestly he knows very little about art, and he's worried he'll appear ignorant if he says more than that. He's spent his whole life in fear of appearing ignorant, especially since he set foot in the world of academia where everyone seems to look down their noses at his inauspicious start in life.

She nods enthusiastically. "Yeah. I couldn't bring much stuff with me, of course. But I've got some watercolours. I'm not sure they'll do justice to the intensity of the colours though."

He nods along, hoping that's the right reaction. "Yeah. It really is beautiful."

"And the free lemonade isn't bad either." She jokes, toasting him with her glass.

He smiles. She's too good at making him smile, he suspects. "You're changing the subject." He chastises her. "Tell me more about your art?"

She swallows hard, looks away, biting down slightly on her lip.

"Clarke?"

"People don't like to talk about my art, back home. You sure you're interested?"

"I'm interested." He confirms, trying to kid himself he's only talking about paintings.

She nods, takes a deep breath. "I guess I experiment a bit with everything. Really my passion is portraits in charcoal. But you can't make a lot of money from that, as my mother likes to remind me. So I've been trying out a few other things. I guess in the end I'll finish up in advertising or something like that."

He stiffens. _You can't make a lot of money from that._ That's something that's important to her, then. She is one of those spoilt rich princesses like he first fixed her down as. Silly of him to get so distracted by her being polite about his interests - she probably was only being polite, he supposes. She's probably from one of those socialite families and has had a lifetime of training in polite conversation. She is, in short, absolutely the last kind of person he could ever have an interest in.

He's pleased he invited her for this drink. It has served its purpose - he has reminded himself quite thoroughly that he is not here to make friends with the likes of Clarke Griffin.

….

Clarke really struggles to get a fix on Bellamy, in the early weeks of the summer.

She cannot figure him out. He was so cold that first evening and some of the next morning, but then warm and smiley and invited her for a drink. He's kept up a similar track record since then - one day he'll be confrontational about nothing, the next he will be laughing at everything she says. It's confusing to say the least.

She doesn't think it's her people skills that are misfiring. She's struck up steady friendships with the girls in her dorm, and with the rest of the guys who share with Bellamy. So she's pretty certain that she's not totally socially dysfunctional, and she doesn't think she's done anything to put his nose out of joint.

She wonders whether maybe he's just like this. But with everyone else he seems to find a sort of happy medium, confident and sometimes bantering, often smirking. Not swinging between two extremes like he does with Clarke.

Whatever. She's not here to make friends. She's here to tell tourists about lemons, to sell overpriced bottles of the same lemonade as the workers drink for free virtually on tap.

It's just that she really does like Bellamy better when he smiles.

….

Bellamy isn't looking forward to the party. Apparently it's a big tradition of the summer season, marking the day that this group of local farmers decided to come together and work in unison on their tourism project. Bellamy's Italian is not bad, and as far as he can tell it translates as _Unity Day_ , more or less.

It's not that Bellamy is averse to parties, as a rule. It's just that he's here to earn some money and see some excavations, thank you very much. He's not here to make friends. He's not here to have fun. And he's certainly not here to get dangerously, judgement-cloudingly drunk around Clarke.

She's been occupying his thoughts a lot. Too much, probably. His thoughts should be on how his mum and sister are getting on back home, whether his application to be a TA at the college will be accepted, how long he can afford to spend in Rome. Not on some precious Princess who keeps making him smile.

Yeah. So much for that. No prizes for guessing that he makes a beeline straight for her the moment he's taken his first drink.

She just looks too tempting, damn it. It's not just that she's wearing a stunning deep red dress that highlights her figure. For the record, he thinks it's a rather foolish dress to be wearing to such an informal occasion. It's more the smile she's wearing with it, that sort of thoughtful pursed-lip smirk that tells him she's only ever one teasing joke away from laughter.

And damn it, but he really does love making her laugh.

"Having fun yet, Princess?" He asks when he is in earshot of her. It's not his strongest opening line, he thinks, but it will serve the purpose.

"Why do you always call me that?" She asks. He's fast coming to learn that's typical of her - to ask another question of her own, rather than answering for his convenience.

"Have you seen yourself?" He gestures to her dress, grinning. "I've been in jeans shorts all week, Clarke. You're here with your fancy princess ball gowns."

She flushes, averts her eyes. Damn it - he was trying to make her laugh, not make her look genuinely uncomfortable.

He's on the point of apologising and trying to fix his mistake when she raises her chin and looks him right in the eye.

"I didn't want to buy a load of new clothes specially for the trip. That seemed wasteful. Thought I might as well get some wear out of what I already had."

He nods. That's a sound explanation, but he senses he touched a nerve. He decides to steer the conversation away to safer ground.

"How are you liking the party so far?"

She grins. "I've definitely been to worse. But I swear there are lemons in everything."

He laughs. "I hear this is a lemon farm." He tells her in a stage whisper.

She rolls her eyes. "What about you? Having fun yet?"

He ought to say something very smooth and very cocky. He knows this. He really ought to keep his tongue under control and style this out like a confident young guy who is not flustered by overdressed princesses.

Needless to say, he doesn't.

"I'm having more fun now you're here." He says lightly.

The most worrying thing of all? She doesn't tease him for that. She doesn't bounce it back at him, doesn't make a bantering fuss.

She honestly looks _happy_ , and damn it, but he really does love making her smile.

….

Clarke can't say she's surprised that she and Bellamy end up ditching the party less than two hours in. She's not sure which of them suggested it, really. Not because she's drunk very much but more because there didn't seem to be a _suggestion_. This wasn't one particular moment where an invitation was issued and accepted. It was more the way they have been looking at each other, touching each other, all evening. If he's been blowing hot and cold with her since they met, he's definitely been rather warm tonight.

So now, here they are, alone together, wandering through a lemon orchard.

"We really shouldn't be out here." She mutters. She's fairly sure assignations in the orchards are against the terms of her contract.

"Oh so _now_ you want to be the sensible one." He jokes.

"I'm always the sensible one."

"And yet here you are wandering through a lemon orchard with a strange guy."

She laughs. "You're not that strange. A little obsessed with the Romans maybe, but I wouldn't say you're _strange_."

He snorts. "Wow. You really know the way to a guy's heart."

"I'm not so bothered about your heart." She says honestly. "I was more interested in what's in your pants."

The suggestion hangs in the air between them, just for a second.

And then all at once he's backing her up against the nearest tree, lips over hers, hand cupping the back of her head so that even as he pushes her firmly against the tree trunk, her head still feels comfortable and cradled and safe.

It's a good kiss. She knew it would be. And she's very glad she's only had a couple of drinks tonight, because she wants to be able to enjoy every moment of this. She's glad to be sober, too, because it helps her make sense of things. She thinks that perhaps she's starting to figure out why Bellamy has been so difficult to get a fix on, so far. She thinks there's a pretty good body of evidence here that he's attracted to her and enjoys her company, but for some reason he doesn't want to like her. She hopes that in time she might get to the bottom of whatever frustrates him about her so much.

She has a feeling those _Princess_ comments might be the place to start.

She sets that thought neatly to one side and concentrates on the kiss. It's not so much a kiss, now, as _making out_. Bellamy's hands seem to have joined the party, exploring her curves over her clothes, and she is more than willing to respond in kind. She's found him attractive right from the start, and when he's attractive _and_ in a good mood? That's a dangerous combination.

He'll be even more dangerous in future, she realises. Now she knows how good he is at this. He's striking a perfect balance between urgency and consideration, passion and protectiveness. He's keeping her comfortable and being polite even as he's showing her how eager he is. A hot hookup with manners is a dangerous thing, in her experience.

She's the one who reaches for his belt first - if only because she suspects he won't. There's something about the polite approach he has taken so far that makes her suspect he won't be the one to take that step.

"Are we doing this?" He breaks away from the kiss just long enough to ask.

"Yeah. I'm in if you're in."

"I'm in." He agrees easily.

She gets his cock out, hikes up her skirts. He grabs a condom from his wallet and rolls it into place. She's not very good at switching off the overthinking part of her brain, so she finds herself wondering whether he brought that condom with him to this party thinking that something like this might happen. It seems odd, otherwise, to bring a condom to a party whose guest list comprises his employers and colleagues.

"You good?" He asks.

"I'm good."

With that, he lifts her slightly, braces her against the tree, and gets started on fucking her.

It ought to feel a bit sordid, she thinks. She's had a fair amount of casual sex in her life before, but she's never been fucked against a lemon tree by her hot summer colleague with scarcely five minutes' foreplay. And yet somehow it doesn't feel sleazy. There's something about how attentive that limited foreplay was, and how careful Bellamy is still being now as he holds her tight, that makes it feel rather more special.

She shakes herself slightly. She can't go thinking that. This is just a hookup, and he's just good at making his partners feel special. That's what good sex is all about, and apparently he happens to be a master in the art.

Objectively, she's impressed with his skill. He's somehow managing to keep her balanced against the tree with one arm even as he tugs her breasts out of her dress and bra with his other hand. And he's still kissing her all the while, neat and not at all sloppy. She cannot help but wonder whether she seems like a let-down by comparison. What is she actually contributing here, besides moaning a little and having a pair of tits? Should she be trying harder? Should she -

"Fuck yes, Princess. You feel so good."

She lets out a long groan. She doesn't quite intend to. But he sounds like he really means it, damn it.

"Yeah. That's it." He mutters against her lips. "Yes, Clarke. Fuck yes."

For the first time in as long as she can remember, she stops thinking too hard. She stops worrying about success or failure or her mother's raised voice. She thinks about nothing but Bellamy's mouth and his cock and his hands, the texture of bark against her back, the sound of his breath beginning to grow short with arousal.

She comes loudly without quite meaning to, squeezes her arms tight around him on sheer instinct. She'll be embarrassed later, when she looks back on this and thinks too hard about that obscene groan.

But she has no time for shame now, because Bellamy is giving one last jerk of his hips, sighing loudly, rocking against her just gently as he chases the last ripples of pleasure.

Yes. She thinks she prefers the days when he seems to like her, all things considered.

….

Bellamy wakes up the following morning with something worse than a hangover. He wakes up with _regrets_. It would almost be better, he thinks, if he and Clarke hooked up drunk last night. But as it is, they were sober enough to know exactly what they were doing.

Sober enough to have no excuses.

So much for keeping his distance from her, for staying on his guard. So much for quashing his silly attraction to her, and remembering not to smile at every last thing she says.

Damn it.

He's frustrated with himself, but he's also hungry, so he gives a resigned yawn and then gets on with dressing and heading for breakfast. And of course, because the universe hates him - he figured that out a long time ago - the only other person pottering round the communal kitchen this morning is Clarke.

"Bellamy. Hey." She greets him brightly. She doesn't look at all regretful, he notes. At least one of them appears to have no mixed feelings about what happened last night.

"Clarke." He says, perhaps a little short, but not quite rude.

She grins at him. "So I've been thinking. You want to head to Naples together on our next day off? You were saying there were some museums there you want to check out, and I had a quick google and it seems like there's some artworks there I should take a look at, too."

He manages to catch his jaw before it hits the floor, manages to clamp it tight shut while he processes this stunning development. Clarke just invited him on a day out to Naples? Is this, perhaps, a _date_?

All at once it strikes him that wearing expensive dresses to informal social occasions is probably a silly reason to hate someone. That he's been too hasty in judging Clarke, too determined to dislike her instead of embracing his attraction to her. That maybe if she wants to go on a day trip with him, he ought to let go of some of his initial prejudiced judgements and simply get on with being happy.

But then again, intense emotional reactions are kind of his brand. He's lost count, now, of how many times his mother has accused him of being impulsive. So really it's no surprise that he and Clarke got off on the wrong foot, is it?

Right. No. He should stop tumbling down this rabbit hole of self-loathing and get on with finding a coherent answer to Clarke's wonderful question.

"That could be fun." He admits, with a tentative smile.

She nods, brisk, displaying no sign of relief that he can see. "Good. So you're in? I figure it'll be cheaper if we share gas money. I've already asked old Antonio if we can borrow his truck. Not sure what it'll be like to drive, but it's got wheels."

He swallows down disappointment. He doesn't have any right to be disappointed, of course, because she never said it was a date. He just stupidly presumed that, rather than jumping to the far more obvious conclusion that she's just being sensible and saving gas money. He ought to be happy that she's taking that approach, he thinks - further evidence that she's not some snob inclined to throw money at problems all the time.

And yet he _is_ disappointed. For a moment, there, he honestly thought this confusing, engaging, _stunning_ woman was asking him out.

"Yeah, you're right. Sounds like a plan. You want me to grab some snacks when I'm next in the village?"

"No, I'll take care of that. You need to plan the itinerary. You're my culture consultant." She tells him, grinning slightly.

"I see how it is. Invite me on a day out when really you just want to use me as a free tour guide." He makes a show of complaining, not at all displeased.

She wrinkles her nose as she smiles. "Come on, Bellamy? You didn't think I was inviting you because I actually _like_ you?"

The thing is, she says it in a tone that suggests she _does_ like him, he thinks. Just like the noises she made against his lips last night sent that kind of message, too.

In short, he is feeling really rather disorientated, this morning. He supposes he had better get his bearings before he tries to guide Clarke round Naples.

….

Clarke tries to ignore her disappointment, in the days that follow. So Bellamy has made it clear that he's not overflowing with enthusiasm for the idea of spending the day with her. So he hesitated when she made the mistake of framing her invitation too much like a date. What of it? She can cope with a little setback. She's faced worse upsets, before now, than one hot hookup not wanting to develop any kind of relationship with her. Anyway, he's not been so hot and cold with her since the party, more consistently lukewarm at least. And she's still getting her trip to Naples, a day in Bellamy's company. Hanging out because it's practical and cost efficient and friendly is better than not hanging out at all.

But damn it, she really does like him more than she ought to.

The day of their visit dawns bright and early. Bellamy meets Clarke at the truck, stashes some snacks on the back seat.

"Who's driving the first leg?" Bellamy asks.

"I can."

"So can I." He throws back at her, teasing.

They toss a coin for it, in the end. It's the stupidest thing, but they simply cannot reach an agreement - both are determined to take on the driving themselves and save the other the inconvenience. And then they get moving, Bellamy somehow negotiating spending the most time behind the wheel no matter how many times Clarke reminds him that they agreed to split the driving fairly.

They leave the truck in a neighbourhood on the outskirts, hoping that it looks too beat-up for anyone to steal. And then they hop on the metro, Clarke following Bellamy's directions on pure trust. She's never been to this city before, or indeed to any city like it. She has no clue where she's going, she's heard some horror stories about the crime rates when it comes to fleecing and pickpocketing tourists, and she feels a million miles from her LA comfort zone.

Bellamy, it turns out, can speak Italian passably well and strides about the place brimming with confidence.

He seems to notice that she isn't so confident, though. She would be embarrassed about that, usually, because she considers herself a reasonably confident woman. But there's something about the way that Bellamy keeps shooting little reassuring glances at her that makes her feel almost comfortable embracing her nervousness.

Then comes the most remarkable moment of all. They need to change lines on the metro, and Bellamy reaches out to take her hand and guide her through the crowded station.

"So we don't get split up." He mutters brusquely, as he clings tightly to her hand.

"Sure. Sensible." She agrees. Is she usually able to speak in sentences of more than one word? She thinks so. But this is the first time Bellamy has touched her since that night against the lemon tree.

….

Bellamy knows he's something of a romantic. His favourite book is the Odyssey - that tells you everything you need to know, doesn't it? So yeah, sure, it would be fair to say he's always dreamed of spending a day out in Naples. And more than anything, he always dreamed he'd share that day with a fascinating and beautiful woman who can hold an intelligent conversation and pretends to be interested when he waffles on about the exciting sights they are seeing.

So. Yes. He's having a phenomenally good day, in case that wasn't clear.

They start out at the archaeological museum. Obviously they start out at the archaeological museum - Bellamy has been reading about this place since he was four years old. And they have all the beautiful artefacts he's only ever seen in books, the statues and the frescoes and even that particular mosaic of an octopus he used to have a picture of cut out of a magazine and stuck above his bed.

He's something of a dork, OK? He just is.

Clarke doesn't seem to mind his obsession, anyway. She nods politely when he talks about fashions in wall painting. She asks intelligent questions about the historical figures depicted in the statues. She even, of all things, asks whether the octopus has a _name_.

Damn it. Why couldn't this be a date?

They switch to Clarke's interests, for the afternoon. Bellamy has planned a sort of walking tour to take in all the works by Caravaggio in the city. He has to concede they're quite far apart, and one of them is in a church on the top of a hill, and that perhaps he has put a little too much effort into this. But he's always been one for excessive gestures, really. He's not sure how else to show Clarke he's got rather too interested in her than by planning an epic afternoon expedition between great works of art.

He takes her hand again as they navigate the bustling metro station on the way home. Just to be sure she won't get lost, of course.

"Good day?" He asks her, although he's pretty convinced she already knows the answer.

"Awesome." She says, with simple unguarded joy. He's used to her looking rather more put together than that, and he's momentarily speechless on learning that she looks even more beautiful when she's totally and unreservedly happy. When she's falling apart at the seams with excitement, even.

"That's good." He says, heartfelt but inadequate.

"Yeah. This has been great, Bellamy. I'm pretty sure we didn't need to see so many paintings at once but thanks all the same, I guess."

"Sorry. Blistered feet?" He asks, wondering whether perhaps he did push this day too far.

"No. Just worried you must have been bored following me around all afternoon while I fangirled over paintings."

He laughs. "Were you bored at the archaeological museum this morning?"

"No. It was good to chat with you about something you're so passionate about." She insists with a determined set to her jaw.

"There you go. That's why I was happy walking round the whole city this afternoon."

Clarke hums in agreement. She's still got hold of his hand, somehow, and for one dizzying, heart-stopping moment he honestly thinks she might rest her head on his shoulder and take a little nap on this crowded metro train.

But then she gives herself a small shake, sets her face in slightly firmer lines. Her fingers are still tangled with his, but there's a slight shift of mood all the same. No more indications that she might want to lean into his chest.

That's fine. They're friends who split the cost of gas. And that's just how it is.

…

They are not just friends who share travel expenses and sandwiches, Clarke learns the following week.

It's hardly a party, this time. Not like Unity Day. It's just the young people who work here passing around a couple of bottles of good white wine that she suspects would cost a fortune, back home, but that people seem to drink as if it was water, here.

She doesn't drink as much of it as, say, Jasper. Not because she is averse to white wine - she quite likes the stuff, actually. But because she still has stuck in her head this idea that good things happen when she is tipsy but not truly drunk.

Good things like hooking up with Bellamy in the depths of a lemon orchard.

She's not trying to entrap him or something, tonight. She's not scheming. It's only that her first thought, when Monty suggested a bit of a social, was that this might be an opportunity to loosen up and ask Bellamy if he fancied another trip to the orchard. She knows he's not interested in some epic romance - she figured that out when he was so slow to agree to that day trip. But she figures that warm friendship with occasional hookups would be a decent compromise.

She's aware that she's somewhat jumped ahead there. She's decided she wants some kind of romance with this guy, on just a couple of weeks' acquaintance, on the back of nothing more than some smiles and a few interesting conversations and one hookup. And she's not usually one to get carried away with romantic ideas - normally she has her feet very firmly on the ground.

But there's just something about Bellamy that hits different.

So that's why she raises a brow at him, a couple of hours in, when everyone else at this almost-party is already several units down. She's not sure how to go about propositioning him, really. They've only ever hooked up just the once. And she's not entirely convinced she contributed much to him having a good time.

But she figures a pointed look is a good place to start.

He seems to get the message. He raises a brow at her in turn, tilts his head in a gesture that seems to be asking if she wants to get out of here.

Well, then. If she'd known it was that easy she'd have tried this before now.

She stands up, makes a loud and pointed comment about needing the bathroom. No one is listening to her, of course, because most of the occupants of the room are thoroughly drunk - Bellamy is the only one still sober and he knows full well that she has no intention of taking a piss.

She doesn't even bother pretending to head for the bathroom. She heads for her dorm room, figures that no one will come home to interrupt them while there is wine to be drunk instead. And she chooses the dorm deliberately because she cannot help but feel that it might be rather lovely to try using a bed, this time round. She might feel a little more like her usual confident self - like she's actually contributing something. Hooking up in a bed is more familiar territory to her than an orchard.

Bellamy does not appear right away. She's beginning to worry, actually. Did she misread his reaction? Is he not joining her after all? Is he cold-shouldering her again, after this warm week?

She's almost on the point of abandoning this idea and heading back out there when he knocks on the door and slips into the room.

"Classy." He says, sarcastic and teasing. "An actual bed?"

She snorts. "What kept you?"

"Jasper mostly. He wanted to know whether the dolphins were real or only he could see them. And then I went to look in the bathroom because, you know, that's where you said you were going."

She laughs. She did say that. She thought it was obvious she was only making an excuse, but apparently not. "I'm sorry. Maybe we need a code for next time."

"Maybe." He says, tone level, as if she did not just imply that _next time_ is on the cards.

She shakes herself. They're not here to plan out some grand romantic future - he's made that quite clear. And they've already chatted a lot more than she expected. She supposes she had better just get things moving.

She steps up, cups a hand around the back of his head, pulls him in for a kiss. He meets her without hesitation, lips against lips, tongues against tongues.

They kiss hotly for a few moments, but not for long. They may have access to a bed, today, but this is still a rushed hookup. Clarke knows they cannot hang around and snog each other silly. So it is that she pulls away from the kiss, sinks to her knees and unbuckles his belt.

"What are you -?" He starts to ask the question, but cuts himself off rather abruptly when she tugs his underwear out of the way and closes her lips around his cock.

She blinks up at him. He understood her wordless message earlier, more or less. Will he hear everything she's not saying now?

"You don't have to." He protests feebly.

She stays put, watches his face a little longer. She wants to do this, because she still cannot get over the feeling that she didn't contribute a whole lot last time.

"You sure you want to?" He asks, in case he hadn't already covered that concept.

She nods, bobs her mouth along his cock while she does so. He likes that, squirming his hips against her to get closer, deeper.

"It feels really good." He admits, hoarse.

So she keeps going, naturally. She takes him down her throat as deep as she can, works the lower part of his shaft with her hand. She supposes she's probably not the most talented in the world at this particular skill, but she likes to think she's pretty damn competent. Bellamy is certainly not complaining - rather, he is tangling his hands in her hair and making the most gorgeous flustered groaning noises.

She wonders, just for a moment, why he wasn't interested, that day she tried to ask him out. He likes sex with her, and talking with her, as far as she can tell. What has she done so wrong that he cannot bear to tie the two halves together into something that looks vaguely like a relationship?

She brushes that thought aside. This is not a moment for sadness or insecurity. This is not a moment for dwelling on the fact that no matter how hard she tries, she never seems to be good enough for anyone - her mother, Finn, Lexa, and now Bellamy.

No. Happy thoughts. There's a gorgeous cock in her mouth and a beautiful guy standing over her, face twisted into a grimace of pleasure.

When she judges that he's getting pretty wound up, she pulls away. She's pleased to have contributed something particular to the party, but she did plan for this to end up with them both coming stretched out over the bed, not Bellamy spilling down her throat.

"You OK?" He asks, frowning deeply.

"Yeah. Just thinking we should switch it up. You want to take this to the bed?"

He nods. "Which is yours?"

She points at it. He turns towards it, but just as he's about to start moving, he reaches out to take her hand.

Wow. That - that seems like a lot, for a casual hookup. Holding hands as they walk the five feet to her bed.

She's not complaining, of course. This is more like what she wants from him in all honesty - the kindness and protectiveness and sheer sense of fun she's seen glimpses of even in the short time she has known him. So it is that she goes with him, squeezes his hand a little, grins enthusiastically when he starts arranging her on all fours on the bed.

He actually does _arrange_ her. It's incredible, the way he just lifts her hips as if it's nothing and eases her into position, then tugs her dress and panties aside.

He grabs a condom, rolls it in place. He makes conversation as he does that, too, which surprises her a little. It's hardly an analysis of the artworks of Caravaggio but he does offer a couple of lighthearted comments about her blow job skills while he's taking care of protection.

She finds that a lot more endearing than she probably should.

He slips inside of her, then, and gets moving right away. But it doesn't feel abrupt because she's already so warmed up from sucking his cock, just now. And she likes to think of that same cock inside of her, right this moment, of the soft skin and hard length and the texture she can remember feeling against her lips. Bellamy is keeping her entertained here, too, reaching out with a hand that fondles her breasts and offers her some support staying crouched in position as well.

He gets pretty close pretty quickly, to judge by his heaving breaths and more erratic thrusts. That's probably no surprise - she supposes she probably took things a bit too far with that blowjob, just now. If she wanted it to last she shouldn't have taken him so close. But perhaps it's for the best, seeing as they are short of time. She's just beginning to wonder if he will come first and leave her frustrated when he solves the problem, finds her clit with a hand and coaxes her closer to the edge.

She falls apart within seconds. Damn it, but he really does know what he's doing. He gets it just right - enough delicious pressure to send her unhinged, but not enough to feel tender or overstimulated.

She's still choking out the last of her sigh when he comes, too, and then slumps against her back. His hands are slightly sticky with sweat where they rest on her exposed shoulder, but somehow, she doesn't find it unpleasant. She's almost proud of it - evidence that this has been an effortful and engaging fuck.

They don't stay there for long, of course. That's not how this works. They are, Clarke thinks friends with benefits in the truest sense of the word - friends who can discuss interests and go on trips and screw and yet are, inexplicably, not romantically involved.

There's that, and there's the fact that she really needs to get back before anyone goes searching the bathroom for her.

"That was fun." Bellamy comments lightly, as she puts her appearance to rights and turns for the door. "I like those fancy dresses of yours better when they're bunched up around your hips."

She laughs. She knows she is supposed to.

And yet there's something about the comment that stays with her to the end of that night - and some days beyond.

….

Bellamy doesn't have any regrets, the morning after he hooks up with Clarke for the second time.

Mostly he just has frustration.

He's frustrated with himself, most of all. He wonders where they'd be, now, if he hadn't been so determined to dislike her at first. He always felt sort of righteous for instinctively criticising the rich. That felt like the moral high ground, more or less, in a world where he grew up poor and angry, where he went through college as the leader of a small but robust socialist society. He's beginning to realise that justice is more complicated than that - and that right and wrong are even harder to decipher when he seems stuck on thinking with his cock, this month.

No, it's not just his cock. He actually _likes_ Clarke, too. She's fun and confident and kind but in a fierce sort of way. Hours spent with her fly past like minutes, and he thinks that's the highest compliment he is capable of paying.

He's frustrated, too, by their situation. He could swear that Clarke enjoys his company as well, likes more than just his penis. But if that day out in Naples wasn't a date, then it seems they are stuck firmly in _friends with benefits_ territory.

He wonders what the difference is between friends with benefits and a relationship, honestly. He fears the biggest difference might be _permanence_. An expiration date. That this is just a passing summer fling for her, and that they will never see each other again when they move back to their opposite sides of the States.

Maybe that's why he decides to make the most of it while it lasts. Either that, or he really does have quite the crush on her.

"You want to take the truck out on a trip again next time we have a day off?" He asks her over breakfast, carefully light.

She grins. "Is this what we do now? Plan trips the morning after we hook up?"

"We could plan trips other times too." He says with a staged shrug. Internally he's wondering how many days out looking at artwork he has to go on with his friend with benefits before it starts to count as dating.

"We could hook up more, too." She suggests, brows raised in challenge.

He laughs. "Sure. Yes to more of everything - now are you coming with me next Saturday or am I driving this truck alone?"

"I'm with you." She agrees right away. "Where to next? Pompeii?"

Maybe it makes him pathetic, but he's pretty sure that visiting Pompeii with a gorgeous, engaging woman at his side was teenage Bellamy's wet dream.

…..

Clarke doesn't give a fuck about the Romans, as it happens.

Or rather - she didn't give a fuck about them, before she met Bellamy. But he just has this way of talking that is honestly enthralling. She's seen him sway the rest of their coworkers to his opinion - he can even talk Jasper down from most stupid ideas. But he's even better to listen to when he's talking about something he's genuinely passionate about.

It gets worse. She stops finding all this history interesting because it is Bellamy who is talking about it, and starts finding it interesting for its own sake. She starts out fascinated by the artwork, the sculpture, the frescoes. And before she knows it she's elbows deep in a book Bellamy has lent her about temple architecture.

She just wants to be able to talk to him about it, OK? If she can hold a coherent conversation about pediments, maybe he will see there's more to her than just a spoilt girl with a few pretty dresses and a charcoal obsession. Maybe he'll see that she would have been smart enough to study medicine, thank you very much, or that she's capable of working hard or learning from her mistakes or having a reasoned argument.

Maybe then he'll want this to be more than a few hookups and some shared gas money.

That's why she does her research, before they head to Pompeii. That's why she suggests Herculaneum next, then a couple more sights in Naples, then manages to find directions to this obscure little museum in the middle of the countryside.

That's why, before the month is out, she thinks she could give a passable guided tour of more than just lemons.

…..

Bellamy thinks nothing of it, when he finds himself wandering around the orchards with Clarke. That's a thing they do pretty often, now. He's even brought a threadbare picnic blanket in case she's up for a quick screw. Walking and talking and fucking together is basically their thing, at this point. They spend a lot of time together and it's comfortable and good.

He thinks it would be even better if she saw him as more than a passing summer fling, but that's beside the point.

He does begin to wonder whether something unusual is going on when she starts asking about his intended itinerary for his trip to Rome at the end of the summer. She's seemed increasingly interested in chatting about history, recently, and he cannot quite figure out where it's come from.

"Yeah, I definitely plan to go see the Colosseum." He says, because obviously he does. "How come you're suddenly so interested in it?" He asks, tone as light as he can manage.

She flushes. Clarke Griffin herself actually _flushes_ and looks away into the twilit orchard. Wow. He's never seen that - and he's slept with her often enough. If ever there were a time to flush, he thinks, surely she'd be more likely to do that in bed than here and now?

"It's a fascinating building." She tells him, fire in her voice. "The construction of the arches is really -"

"Yes, Princess. The arches are a work of genius. But since when do you care about arches?"

"Just trying to show you there's more to me than painting and princesses." She says, tone too bright - almost brittle.

He gulps. He should have known a moment like this was coming. It serves him right, really - he did think she was nothing but painting and princesses, early on. Or rather, he _wanted_ to think that, and she just kept on showing him there was far more to her than he was willing to see.

He's so happy he admitted to himself that he was wrong.

But all the same, it occurs to him here and now that he's never told _her_ he was wrong. He's never outright admitted to her how conflicted his first impression of her was, or explained how much he has grown to respect her since.

In moments like this, he figures it probably serves him right that she wants to keep this as more of an arrangement than a relationship.

"I realised there was more to you than that a long time ago." He tells her, throat thick. Damn it - this unexpected summer entanglement has turned out to be way more important to him than he could ever have expected.

She snorts.

He tries again. "I did think that at first, and I'm sorry for it. It was nothing to do with you. I just - I guess I brought a lot of baggage here with me. But I've never thought you were ignorant or boring. You don't have to read up on amphitheatre architecture to prove to me you're worth my time." He tells her, firm and heartfelt.

She's silent for a moment. He wonders whether he ought to try yet one more time to find some better words.

"I get it." She says at last. "We all have different baggage."

"Good job this summer is about leaving some of that baggage behind?" He asks hopefully.

She nods. "I'm not doing so well at that." A long sigh. "I need to decide what to do when I get home."

"No you don't. Summer rules." He says at once. "Time for all of us to just -"

"No, I do." She interrupts him, fierce. "I told myself I was going to send in some job applications while I was here. I told my mum that, too."

He frowns. He doesn't like the guilt in her voice. Guilt should be for things that merit it, he thinks - betrayals, crimes, hurting people you love. Guilt does not belong to things like admin or chores or betraying a promise which, he is certain, her mother extracted under some kind of emotional duress.

"You're OK, Clarke." He whispers, reaches out to pat her on the shoulder. He hopes that's soothing. Normally they go for sex, not shoulder pats.

She nods stiffly, apparently with careful control. One of these days he wishes she would let her guard down around him. They're getting there, he likes to think. She's relaxed with him in bed, and she was telling him some painful truths, there - or was on the brink of it at least.

No. He shouldn't wish for that. Letting her guard down belongs in a relationship, he's pretty sure.

He's not surprised when she moves the conversation on.

"It's not like reading about history is a hardship." She says. "The Colosseum was a really interesting political move, don't you think?"

He lets her have it. She wants to change the subject, and he wants her to be happy. So it is that he nods, and says she might have a point, and listens attentively for a solid ten minutes while she tells him a great deal of things he already knows.

Honestly, he'd listen to her voice all night without feeling that he'd wasted a second.

When she runs out of words, she starts kissing him, instead. He goes with it, because he likes kissing her, because he wants to bring her some peace and this is the only way he knows how. He breaks away from the kiss just long enough to spread his blanket out on the ground, then urges her down to lie next to him.

It's a little different, tonight. They've hooked up in the orchard more times than he can count. They've done it against trees, and kneeling in the dirt, and even on one memorable occasion in a wheelbarrow. But tonight is no hurried fuck, no frantic messy collision of hips. Bellamy takes his time, stretches Clarke over the blanket, goes down on her until she's crying his name. And then he tries to maintain that mood as he slips inside of her, kisses her softly while he coaxes them both to climax.

He and Clarke have got pretty good at hooking up, in the last two months. But this is simply spectacular.

They keep lying on the blanket, afterwards. It's a warm evening and they have nowhere else to be. If anyone else happens to stroll through the orchards they'll get caught naked, but that hardly seems like a major concern in this moment. Bellamy is perfectly content to take that minor risk as he lies here, with Clarke's head pillowed on his chest, and stares up at the branches of the lemon tree above them and the stars beyond.

"Lemons are kind of our thing, huh?"

He starts. He wasn't expecting Clarke to want to speak to him any time soon. He thought they were just lying here quietly, maybe taking a nap. That would have been in keeping with the mood just now, he thinks. So it takes him a moment to form actual words.

"Lemons?" He asks, perhaps foolishly.

"Yeah. Lemons brought us together, get it? We met working on a lemon farm, and now we're hooking up. _Lemons_."

"Lemons?" He repeats. He could swear he used to feel much more cool and smooth before Clarke turned his world upside down.

"You know. It's a word for smut. Sex. Written erotica."

He chokes on a laugh. "It's a _what now_?"

"Come on, don't tell me that's news to you - you with your Iliad obsession. You must have read lemons before now."

He can feel his skin heat. Hooking up with someone for a summer is one thing, but this conversation feels oddly private. "Uhh, no. I'm not so into the… written erotica."

"I am." Clarke says, confident as anything. That's his Clarke.

Sorry - just Clarke. Not _his_ Clarke. A strong independent Clarke who wants nothing from him.

"You are?" He prompts. He's not about to let a conversation this fascinating go to waste.

"Yeah. Or - I used to be. Read a huge amount of woman/woman pairings when I was trying to figure out my sexuality."

"Sounds cool."

"Yeah. It was pretty helpful actually."

Silence falls. Bellamy wants to laugh, honestly. There's something he thinks is funny - or perhaps incredibly sad - about the way Clarke is confident in having a frank discussion about questioning and sexuality, but has barely ever told him three sentences about her relationship with her mother.

It's almost like she's frightened of anything where emotions get entangled, he thinks.

He sets that thought aside for another time. He's not interested in worrying, tonight. He's not here to fret about the future he and Clarke will never have.

He just wants to hold her close and smell the lemons.

….

It's been a glorious summer, vibrant and lively and busy and everything Clarke needed. When she looks back on it in the years to come, she will remember it as colours, she thinks. The bright blue of the sky, the deep azure of the ocean. Lemon yellow, of course. The rich browns and earth tones of the soil and the buildings, Bellamy's skin tone and warm eyes.

Yeah. She's never going to be able to look back on this time without thinking of him.

She's got it bad, and she hates it. She can paint the sky. She can take home a bottle of lemonade, and when she heads to the beach back in LA, she knows she will be essentially touching the same sea.

But she can take nothing of Bellamy away with her.

She's made a decision. It's a big one, and she's still figuring out how to follow through. But she's going to invite herself to Rome with him. She figures he won't actually say no - he likes having sex with her, and they have a laugh when they go on their trips. She just needs to couch it as another one of those casual friendly suggestions, rather than freaking him out by making it sound romantic.

That's a mistake she's sure as hell not going to make twice.

She thinks she's ready, when Saturday next rolls around and they're in the truck heading home from Naples - again. In all honesty, they have almost run out of tourist sites in Naples, now they've been so many times. And yet they keep going, exploring fascinating parts of the city off the beaten track, and simply enjoying one another's company.

At least - she's enjoying it. Two months together - or resolutely _not_ together - and she still has no idea what Bellamy makes of it at all. She finds him a funny guy, really. He's so openly, passionately emotional when he's talking about his sister or his career or his upbringing. But he clams up every time she tries to talk about what they're doing, beyond the purely logistical. She's still amazed she even got away with that joke about lemons the other day.

So now it's Saturday evening, and they're on their way home to the farm, and she's got her question prepared.

"Have you finalised your arrangements for Rome?" She asks brightly. She's just planning to ask him if the reservations can be changed to a double room and then let things roll from there.

But of course, he's Bellamy Blake, and he just has to ruin her carefully laid plan with his raw enthusiasm.

"Yes! I've got the perfect itinerary. I'm starting with the Colosseum and the forum on the first morning, because they're close together. And I figure it's best to do the Colosseum early in the morning before the crowds get too bad."

"Sounds good." She says, trying to stay calm. How can she steer this back to hotel rooms?

She can't, it turns out. Bellamy is too excited, his sheer joy running away with him. He finishes describing exactly when he plans to fit in lunch and is telling her all about the Trajan markets before she can get a word in edgeways.

So that's that. Looks like today is not her day.

….

Bellamy thinks there is something off with Clarke.

It's difficult to tell, because she's very private about the state of her head. She was just starting to show him glimpses of it, he could swear it, but she has grown a little more highly-strung again in this last week or so.

Probably it's just because the summer is nearly over, he figures. They have just about a month left to work here. So she's most likely just feeling nervous and upset at the thought of going home to her mother.

He doesn't plan on mentioning it. She's made it quite clear, before now, that this is to be an arrangement based on purely physical rather than emotional intimacy. But he's worried about her, damn it. She seems almost _jumpy_. And if she's really that stressed out about the summer ending he wants to see what he can do to help.

The final straw? He invites her on a quick visit to the orchard, or the back seat of the truck, or literally any location of her choosing, and she says no.

That's so out of character he almost pulls her in for a hug right there on the spot.

He fishes for the right words, tries for an appropriately neutral tone.

"So the summer's nearly over."

"Yeah. Only four weeks left till I'm supposed to fly home." She agrees, and he thinks she sounds tired.

"Five for me." He points out with a shrug.

She nods. Silence falls. But her jaw is working, and he could swear she has something else still to say.

He waits for her.

"I could come to Rome with you." She says.

He waits still longer. He listens, long and hard, for what must come next. Surely she is going to follow that up with _but just as friends_ , or _we could share costs_ , or _I could use an orgasm or two that week_.

But she never says anything of the kind.

Honestly, he feels flustered. This is something new, isn't it? To make a suggestion that doesn't come with a line drawn carefully in the sand? An implication that there might be more than only lemons between them?

"You could definitely come with me." He agrees, trying to sound eager but not too eager. Did he leave it too long to answer her? Has he screwed up this -

"Sounds great." She says at once, nodding enthusiastically, a grin splitting her face. She looks more relaxed than he's seen her in days. No, that can't be true.

Can it?

He tests the waters, tries saying a little more. "It'll be great to have you there. You know, I hear trips are much more fun when you get to share them with someone you like hanging out with."

He's a little frustrated with himself. He meant to say _someone you like_ , and leave it at that, and give her the chance to decide what she wanted that to mean. He could swear life used to be simpler before Clarke. He has always loved his mother and his sister, appreciated in a detached sort of way the lovers he would take briefly to his bed.

She's taught him that his heart is a hell of a lot more troublesome than he realised.

"Yeah. I've been wondering about inviting myself along for a while." She says, in a voice too careful to sound truly natural.

"You should have said something sooner. You must have known I'd be on board with it." He frowns at her, honestly puzzled. Has he not been wearing his heart on his sleeve so clearly as he thought?

She smiles. "Never mind. It's sorted now. I'll rebook my flights. You need me to call the hotel and change the booking?"

He flushes. "I haven't actually booked the hotel yet. I wanted to wait for my next paycheck and see if I could get a cheap last minute deal."

"Do you want to book everything and I'll pay you back? Or would you rather sit down and do it together?"

"Let's do it together." He says at once. "It'll be fun to spend an evening on it with a drink sometime."

She grins. "Sure. Sounds good. We have to pick someplace where we can fill up on free breakfast and save money on lunch."

He laughs. He's in way too deep, here. He knew that already, of course. But today has the final proof. Today is the day he realised even wasting an evening comparing hotel prices sounds fun if Clarke is at his side.

….

Clarke should probably not be enjoying shopping for hotel deals this much.

She brought this laptop with her to work on job applications, damn it. Not to laugh with Bellamy while fighting the farm's glitchy wifi and trying to book the budget break of a lifetime.

"We should pick this one." She suggests, pointing at a blurry photo. "They have lemons on the wallpaper. _Lemons_."

He laughs. "It's eight euros more than the next one, Princess."

"But it's way closer to the Colosseum."

This is an argument she wins, in the end. She's not sure whether she wins because Bellamy is feeling sentimental about lemons or because he really is obsessed with the Colosseum.

She doesn't worry about it. Either way, it adds to the character of the man she's fast realising she's fallen way too hard for. Either way, it's another example of him being a warm-hearted sweetie, or adorably enthusiastic about his passions, or maybe a bit of both.

She supposes they should put the laptop away and have sex now. Sex is their thing, right? That's presumably what Bellamy is expecting, late in the evening, alone in the living room with all their friends in their dorms. In fact, he's reaching an arm out to her right now.

But he's not reaching out to cup her cheek and kiss her, it turns out. He's trying to get an arm round her shoulders, trying to pull her in close to his side. It's the kind of casually affectionate gesture that they don't engage in very often and she has been absolutely craving.

In the end, she's still there two hours later. They've long since run out of hotels to compare and itinerary plans to make. Now they're simply checking out the reviews of what feels like every gelateria in Rome.

And cuddling. They're doing that, too.

…..

The summer ends.

Bellamy always knew it would. And he seems to remember he was dreading this, not so long ago. Dreading the moment they would all pack their bags and leave the farm. But he's been looking forward to it, since Clarke invited herself along to Rome. He knows that's foolish, because he's still going to lose her soon. But he's just been too excited at the prospect of going on holiday with the woman he's fast realising he really has gone and fallen in love with.

He thinks he might say something to her, before they go their separate ways. He knows there's no way this can last - they live on opposite sides of the country, back home. But he wants her at least to know how special this time was to him, to go back to her mother's pressuring and her unknown future with that little boost to her self esteem.

He figures there's no harm in saying something, seeing as it won't make any difference. If it turns out she really does only see him as a friend with benefits then it's only himself he's hurting.

He pushes that thought aside for now, gathers his things and says his goodbyes. He's made some good friends here, grown fond of Murphy's sharp cynicism and Jasper's easy sense of fun.

But he finds that he is not so sad to be leaving them, because he gets to take Clarke with him, at least for a little while.

They take the train along the coast to Rome, crammed into backwards-facing airline style seats because that's what Clarke found cheap. Turns out she may have a library of expensive dresses, but she still knows all about living on a budget. She said something while they were planning all this - just half a sentence about her mother not liking to spend money on frivolous art students.

He could swear that hearing that sentence almost broke his heart. To have resources and refuse to use them to make your kid's life more comfortable is horrible, he's decided. His mum didn't have much and she gave all of it to the cause of helping Bellamy and Octavia realise their dreams. But he's pretty sure that making your kid's life difficult just because you cannot embrace their choices is the pettiest crime of all.

They lean up against each other for a nap on the train. Bellamy loves it, way more than he probably should. It just feels so comfortable and relaxed and domestic.

And then they arrive at the hotel room, and things get even more domestic.

It all starts simply enough. They set down their cases, kick off their shoes. They establish preferred sides of the bed. And of course it turns out this is yet another way in which he and Clarke are painfully, upsettingly compatible. He wishes he'd known she liked the left side sooner than this. He wishes he'd had a whole glorious summer sharing her bed, rather than only bedding her.

Then the domesticity deepens.

Apparently not content with having kicked off her shoes, Clarke decides to remove her socks. Bellamy can understand that - it seems like a normal thing to do, so he does the same. And then he heads to the bathroom to take a piss, and by the time he comes back again, Clarke is lounging in a chair.

To be specific, she's lounging in a chair dressed in nothing but her underwear.

He swallows. It's underwear of that genre which is designed to be functional as well as aesthetic, sky blue and lacey but essentially modest.

It might be modest, but he's rather losing his shit, here.

Is this what it will be like, to share a hotel room with Clarke? Will she strip off and invite him to fuck her every five seconds? How exactly is he supposed to let her go at the end of the week after this?

He clears his throat, tries for a cool, casual tone.

"You OK there? Want something from me?" He teases.

She looks up, shrugs lightly. "Don't mind. We can if you want. But honestly, I was just overheating. Turns out Rome is hot at the end of the summer."

He nods. That's a very sensible answer. Very _Clarke_.

"Is it OK?" She asks, starting to sound nervous now. "I hope you don't mind. I just thought - there's no one here but you. I was trying to get comfortable."

He swallows tightly. Sure. They can do a platonic lingerie dresscode. That's totally a thing, right? That's exactly the kind of comfortable, casual approach friends with benefits might embrace.

He's so screwed.

"Yeah, sure. Make yourself at home. Just - you know - try your best to ignore my hard-on." He jokes.

She laughs. "Flatterer. Come on, sit down and look at this map with me. How long do you think it will take us to get to the Colosseum tomorrow? I know you want to be there insanely early."

He laughs, takes a seat. He's now timetabling tomorrow with a half-naked Clarke. It's the moments like this he really loves about their relationship, he muses, even as he wills his semi to subside.

Sorry - it's moments like this he loves about their _arrangement_. Their summer.

Their lemons.

He shakes himself, forces his attention to the map. They spend a good couple of hours simply sitting and relaxing and going over the details of their plans. Clarke is Clarke, so she even sets alarms for the morning on both their phones. Of course she does. She wouldn't want one of their alarms to fail and ruin his holiday, he thinks affectionately.

As evening starts to fall, Bellamy starts to think about dinner. He's excited about this - not just because he expects them to find somewhere with great food, but because he's thrilled at the thought of sitting opposite Clarke and enjoying what he's trying to remember is not truly going to be a date.

The reality exceeds his expectations, in the end.

It's Clarke who chooses the restaurant, a little family-run place off the beaten track. It looks intimate, she says.

 _Intimate_.

He manages not to pass out on the spot, at that. It's a close run thing, but he keeps hold of his composure and allows Clarke to lead him by the hand into the restaurant. He realises how this must look to the world - like they're a real couple, looking for a sweet romantic evening together.

Would it really be so terrible to pretend to himself, just for an evening, that they're truly together? Where would be the harm in that? It's not as if he can ruin things with Clarke - they're going their separate ways in five days' time anyway.

That idea takes hold of him all too quickly. He's just going to play a little make-believe. That's harmless enough, right? He's just going to keep hold of her hand as they take their seats, because he figures she won't find that as patronising as she'd find it if he offered to pull out her chair. He's just going to tangle his legs with hers under the table, just going to feed her bites of pasta from his own fork.

He's just going to give her a taste of what it would be like, if she wanted all of him.

She doesn't seem to hate it. She's responding in kind, as far as he can tell. She's pressing his fingers where their hands lie together on the table, and she makes a great fuss of wiping some pasta sauce from the corner of his mouth. Honestly, he's pretty sure she's making that up to have an excuse to stroke his face in public. No pasta sauce takes quite that long to wipe away.

"This is fun." He dares to say, as their pasta bowls are cleared.

"It's great." She says at once. "The food's excellent."

He tries not to look disappointed at that. "Yeah. You chose well."

She nods. "Thank you. The atmosphere's lovely as well, isn't it? Nice and personal. It's perfect for just sitting here and spending some time with you without having to worry about those damn lemons." She laughs.

He brightens at that. She's enjoying spending time with him which, if not actually a date, is at least _date-like_. She said it herself. So he grins broadly at her and fishes for something witty to say.

"Hey. Don't knock the lemons. Without the lemons neither of us would be here." He points out.

"True. I'm so grateful we had this time, Bellamy. I feel like it's done both of us good to have a summer away from our families to just be… ourselves."

He nods. He's not sure what to make of the fact that she's speaking for both of them, as if they're some kind of old married couple rather than a summer romance destined to be over almost before it has begun.

He just knows that she's right. That they're a pair of kindred spirits who've spent their whole lives worrying about other people, and that it has done them both a world of good to take this summer simply for themselves.

….

Clarke wonders whether she might have accidentally walked into one of her own fantasies.

She's never dreamed about Rome specifically, of course, not like Bellamy has. But all her life she's dreamed of being valued and accepted as a person, loved for who she is without the pressure and expectations she feels from her mother and their wider family. And here and now, walking home from dinner hand-in-hand with Bellamy, she truly does feel like she's found that.

It's silly. They're going home in five days, destined to never see each other again, quite probably. She needs to stop acting like he's the love of her life or something.

But - but what if he _is_?

What if there's more than only lemons between them? What if those conversations they've had along the way about families and fears and futures have meant just as much to him as they have meant to her?

What if going home without him would be the biggest mistake of her life?

Last time she felt this conflicted, she remembers, was when she was deciding what to study at college. She felt that she ought to choose medicine. That was what her mother wanted, and her grandmother. And it was safe in as much as she knew there would be employment at the end of it, knew she had the capabilities to make a success of it as long as she worked hard. As a young woman who has prided herself on being sensible all her life, she knew that medicine was the rational choice.

But she wanted to make art. She wanted it so much. And she remembered, too, that her father had always encouraged the dreamer inside of her. So it was largely in memory of him that she chose her path in life.

And she never regretted it. She knows, without doubt, that following her heart and choosing creativity over safety is the best decision of her life.

What if this is like that? What if this is a time to follow her heart, too? Isn't that what this summer was all about - some time to escape from the rigid pressures of home and be a little more free-spirited? To learn how to loosen up and truly _live_?

She's got five days to make her mind up. Five days to decide whether she's going to go back to her sensible life or whether she's going to do something crazy and throw herself at Bellamy, ask him if there's any chance of a future for them.

She tries to put it out of mind. They're back at the hotel, now, climbing the stairs. And frankly she wants to stop thinking about difficult life decisions and get on with relaxing as she relaxes best - with Bellamy's cock inside of her.

She's not subtle about the way she launches herself at him, once they have the door closed behind them. She reaches for his lips, tangles her hands in his hair, and pulls him in for what can only be described as a snog.

"You OK?" He asks, breathless and laughing lightly, when he pulls away.

"Yeah. I guess dinner just put me in the mood." She jokes. That's perfectly true, even if there are also other things going on here.

"Me too." He admits, with something that looks a lot like vulnerability in his eyes.

She smiles softly at him. And then she gets back to the kiss, lips against lips, her hips pressing into is. It's time for things to get a bit more heated, now, she decides. So she tugs his shirt off over his shoulders, presses kisses to his chest and neck as she gets it cleared out of the way. She tries to go for his belt, next, but Bellamy stops her with his fingers over hers.

"Not yet." He clears his throat. "Let me get you undressed first. I know how pretty you look under that dress."

She flushes. She noticed, earlier, the way he was looking at her in her underwear. Honestly, all this is flattering, because she's not even wearing lingerie, not really. She's definitely wearing something that's designed for practicality at least as much as prettiness, designed for function over seduction. But it's exciting that Bellamy finds her so attractive in it all the same.

He's gentle, as he eases the dress off her and starts kissing the bare skin below. _Reverent_ , even. He really does know how to make her feel special. She used to think he was like this with every holiday hookup, but she's beginning to dare to hope there might be something more going on, here.

He doesn't jump straight to fondling her breasts. He takes a moment, first, just to trace the outline of her bra with a gentle finger, his warm hands skimming against the lace. She can feel her breath catch in her throat, can hear her heartbeat roaring in her ears.

It's silly. It's just skin.

But it's an intoxicating combination - his flattering tender care and the tension of waiting for what she knows must come next.

At last, he breaks. He unhooks her bra, throws it to one side, kneels to stretch up and get his mouth on her nipples.

"You don't have to be on the floor." She gasps, breathy. "We have a bed now."

He pulls back, laughing. "True. Come on, Princess."

She grins. He's not called her that in ages, she notes. A good few weeks at the very least. And in that time, what started out as a scornful mockery seems to have turned into an affectionate pet name.

She's certainly not complaining.

They have a big bed - a large double, for the first time this whole summer - and they really make the most of it. They start out with Clarke sprawled over it, an undignified starfish, while Bellamy makes a fuss of her breasts. Then he takes a little detour down between her legs, tongue coaxing her to her first orgasm of the night.

She suspects there will be several more before he's done with her.

She tugs at his hair, urges him back up the bed. And then she keeps being demanding and greedy, as she pulls his belt open and the last of his clothes aside.

"Needy." He accuses her playfully.

"You've just been spoiling me all summer."

"Right back at you. What am I going to do without you?" He clearly means it as a joke, but it doesn't quite come out sounding like one. There's too much heaviness to it, too much sadness in his eyes.

Looks like Clarke isn't the only one feeling attached, here. She really is growing convinced that she ought to follow her heart on this one.

She's not ready to say anything yet, though. That's why she soothes him with a kiss, tastes the sharp tang of her recent pleasure on his lips. She could get lost in kissing Bellamy, she sometimes thinks. If ever they had the time she could quite happily spend a whole afternoon doing nothing else.

It's Bellamy who makes the next move. He rolls on a condom then settles his hips over hers, ready to get inside of her. Clarke arches up towards him, a clear invitation. But before he gets on with business as usual there's something that takes her by surprise. He reaches for her hands, extends them out above her head in a star shape much like the one she was making just now.

"I liked that." He mutters against her lips. "Liked seeing you stretched out all over our bed. And I like holding your wrists down like this. That OK?"

She nods against him, rubbing her lips over his cheek in a clumsy kiss. And then she's back to his lips, swallowing down his groan as he eases inside of her. He starts moving at once, evidently well wound up from the underwear and the dinner and the oral. He's moving quickly, rocking firmly against her. She's impressed that he's managing this while his hands are outstretched with hers, she has to admit. It's almost like they've had a lot of practice this summer.

She likes having her arms held down more than she expected to. It feels more protective than confining, she thinks. He's holding her firmly but with a tenderness, too. And the sensation of his big, strong hands cradling her wrists is doing dangerous things to her insides.

"So good." She groans - or at least, she tries to. It comes out pretty mangled.

"You like this?" He pants.

"Yeah. Love it." She admits. It's dangerously close to _love you_ , she thinks. There is a fine line between loving this moment and loving the person she is sharing it with, the guy who's making the moment possible.

"Me too." He tells her without missing a beat.

She sighs against his skin, relaxes back into the moment. She's going to come again before long, now. She can feel it building deep in her core, pleasure flaring wherever Bellamy touches her. But she can feel, too, the hints that this is going to be a big one - the trembling of her eyelashes, the rush that feels a bit like a delicious kind of dizziness. The way her whole entire body is ready to fall apart for him.

"I've got you." He reminds her, giving the slightest squeeze where he still holds her wrists.

That's what does it. She tumbles over the edge, lies there squirming beneath him for several long seconds while she rides out her orgasm.

It's a little embarrassing, she thinks, when she is done. How coming so hard and so long robs her of any kind of coherent behaviour for all that time. Or at least, it would be embarrassing if she was with anyone other than Bellamy. The person she has come to trust so absolutely, despite having known him only a few short months.

When he says _I've got you_ , she believes him. She puts her faith in him like she has never been able to put her faith in anyone else before.

It's time to return the favour, she decides. She gives him a brief, eager kiss, and then starts whispering affectionately in his ear.

"That was so good. So hot when you hold me like this. You make me feel so special. You -"

She doesn't need to say any more. He's already there, barking out her name and then collapsing over her chest, his arms still tangled with hers above their heads.

She extracts her hands, slowly, gently. She brings them up instead to rub his shoulders and back. That's partly because she knows he enjoys a good hug more than he likes to admit, and partly out of selfishness. His shoulders and back are well worth stroking.

"You _are_ pretty special." He says suddenly, too light, too casual. "It's not every hookup I share the Colosseum with. That's something, huh?"

She laughs, because she knows she is supposed to. "That's quite something." She agrees carefully.

Silence sits for a moment. Clarke wonders if this is the moment to say something - perhaps to admit that she's wondering what to do, if nothing else. Isn't that what it means, to trust Bellamy? That she could share her conflicted feelings with him?

The moment breaks. He pulls away, presses a kiss to her forehead then goes to throw out the condom. And by the time he returns, Clarke has managed to drag herself out of bed to the bathroom.

But they come back together before long. They settle back into the mattress for a moment that is different, but no less precious.

Tonight, for the first time in this whole glorious summer, they get to fall asleep side by side.

….

Bellamy might be a little too excited to be waking up next to Clarke. He fears it might make him somewhat pathetic, to be so comfortable cuddling her, to be so aroused by her sheer presence that his morning wood is already pressing urgently into her butt cheek.

He should probably roll away. The poor woman deserves to get some rest, not be pestered by his penis.

Only then she's stirring in his arms, shuffling back into his embrace, rubbing her curves against him in a determined way that strongly suggests she knows exactly what she's doing. And he hates to disappoint her, so needless to say they end up hanging around and spending a very pleasurable half hour in bed.

But that throws Clarke's precious schedule off-course, so naturally they then find themselves rushing towards the hotel elevator, snatching breakfast, striding towards the Colosseum in something of a hurry.

Honestly, Bellamy doesn't regret a thing. He'll take a flustered, sweaty morning walk if that's the price he has to pay for starting the day with Clarke sighing his name.

He gets a chance to cool down a little, anyway, as they stand in the queue for the Colosseum. Even this early in the day there are already hordes of tourists here. But he doesn't mind, because it turns out standing in line with Clarke is pretty fun. They chat about nothing in particular, share casual touches of the hand or arm or waist. It's dangerously like having a girlfriend, he fears.

The Colosseum is everything he dreamed it would be, when they finally get through the gates. It's big and imposing, yes, but it also holds a real story, he finds himself thinking. Perhaps it's just the Roman nerd in him, but he can really feel that history has happened on this spot. He can imagine the roar of the crowd and the wrath of the emperor.

Most of all he likes standing on the topmost of the levels open to the tourists and looking down at the city below. He could write a book about the view from here, he thinks - and maybe he _should_ , if that career in academia doesn't work out. Maybe he could spend the rest of his life traipsing round this wonderful city with this wonderful woman and writing historically informative guide books.

He spins around. The view down over the Colosseum itself is just as fascinating. He can pick out all the complex engineering lying beneath the floor level, can imagine the spectators sitting in their seats.

"You want to get a photo?" Clarke pipes up next to him, in a fond sort of tone. As if she's enjoying watching him enjoy his treat rather than finding it exasperating.

He nods at once, gets his phone out and starts snapping shots of the view and the city and the structure.

"That's not what I meant." She murmurs, hand on his arm. "Do you want to get a photo of us? A silly selfie to remember the moment?"

He gulps. He wants that more than anything, but he's not sure he's _allowed_ to want it. He's not really one for cheesy selfies, normally, and he fears that taking one now with Clarke might mean something dangerous - if not to her, then at least to himself.

"Yeah. Go on." He agrees, stepping closer to her side on instinct. "You're the artist. Where shall we stand?"

She considers it for a moment. She frowns out at the view, spins on the spot squinting into the light.

"Over here." She decides, dragging him by the arm. "The light's good. And I like the city view."

He doesn't argue. He reaches out for her, wraps an arm snug around her shoulders. She leans right into his side, smiles warmly up into the camera. He holds his phone up, arm outstretched, ready to snap the shot.

It's just as he takes the photo that he sees it in a corner of the frame. There, in the background, in a garden on the hill behind them.

He could swear that's a lemon tree.

Maybe that's why he's smiling so wide, when the shutter closes. Or maybe it's the sunshine, or the adventure of a lifetime, or Clarke smiling even wider at his side.

Maybe it's all of the above.

Either way, he admits defeat and sets the photo as his phone wallpaper right away. He suspects he'll end up changing half his social media profiles to this picture, too. Yes, he knows that's somewhere between foolish and pathetic. But in this moment he's honestly too happy to care.

….

Clarke loves Rome. She loves the food and the atmosphere. She loves the hotel they have booked - cheap, yes, but clean and pleasant and run by the most warm and generous hosts. She loves watching Bellamy get overexcited about history, loves the time she spends enthusing about Raphael in the Vatican museum.

But most of all she loves the times in between.

She loves just wandering around the city with Bellamy, hand in hand as often as the hot weather will allow. She loves chatting with him as they are crushed together on the crowded metro, loves just living and breathing in the same space as this man twenty-four hours a day. It turns out that the best moments in life are even better when you share them with someone special. She's got better at giving herself a break, and choosing to enjoy life, since she chose her art and her own path in life. But she's found herself realising, this summer, that a path shared is much more fun than walking a lonely road.

"What are you thinking?" Bellamy asks her now, with a nudge.

She pauses a moment. She could say she's thinking about Caravaggio, and it wouldn't entirely be a lie. And she could say she's thinking about gelato, which is also at least a partial truth.

But she challenges herself to be more honest with him than that.

"I'm thinking about happiness." She swallows. "I'm thinking about choosing between what's sensible and what makes me happy."

He frowns across at her. "They shouldn't be different things, right? Choosing happiness is a sensible choice, because happiness is important. As long as you've thought everything through - which you always do, because you're Clarke."

She nods. He's onto something, she thinks. Happiness and sense are not inherently opposite - she's just got stuck on thinking of them that way because of the lingering anxiety of arguing with her mother about college. Sensible just means that something is workable. It doesn't have to mean that it is boring and expected and predictable.

And as far as she can tell, there is nothing in this world more workable than her and Bellamy as a team.

He's a good guy. Just as fine art is a good degree. Neither of them are senseless choices - a decision can come from the heart but still be sound.

She thinks that's her mind made up. Maybe. Perhaps. But it's difficult to let go of the habit of a lifetime, difficult to learn how to talk about her feelings after so long bottling them up inside. So she's not ready to say anything right now, as they wander down the Via Urbana together and watch the mopeds speed by.

"You're right." She tells him simply. "Come on. We need gelato. My treat. Let's take a left here."

He doesn't argue. He just laughs and reaches out to squeeze her affectionately on the shoulder.

….

Rome is nearly over.

Bellamy knows that's a silly way of looking at it. The city will endure, even once he and Clarke have left. But he's so disappointed that their time here is drawing to a close that it feels a little like the city is crumbling around their very ears.

He thinks Clarke has something on her mind, as they make love together the night before their departure. She's been quieter than usual, less confident and outgoing. Is he totally mad to think that she might be even half as disappointed as he is?

He's absolutely devastated, for the record. He's torn between looking up at her as she rocks her hips over his, trying to fix every detail of this sight in his memory, and shutting his eyes tight so she won't see that he's on the point of tears.

He opts to shut his eyes, in the end. There's just too much going on. He can't keep his cool, can't stop his thoughts running off after crazy ideas of how to avoid losing Clarke tomorrow. Could he suggest they take another trip together in the future? Every summer for the rest of their lives, maybe? No, it's too much to ask her to put her life on hold for him. Would he be totally out of line to ask if he could sometimes call her, when they get back home, for a chat about their days and then for him to get off to the sound of her voice?

She comes while he's lying there, distracted. He feels awful about it, hates that he missed a precious moment in what might be their last time making love.

No. He knows her better than that. He'll get to feel her come around his fingers in the shower tomorrow morning if nothing else.

He tries to force himself back into the moment. Eyes still squeezed tight shut, he reaches out towards her. She meets him half way, folding forward onto his chest even as she keeps rocking her hips. He holds her close, buries his face into her collarbone, feels pleasure stealing over him faster than he'd like.

He just wants to make this moment last forever, damn it.

It can't. No moment can - he's learnt that the hard way. So it is that he finds himself thrusting up against her, chasing release, collapsing back onto the pillow with a resigned sigh.

A few tears seem to have leaked from his closed eyelids. He can feel them gathering, damp and somehow _shameful_. Clarke doesn't owe him anything. He has no right to cry, and he's disappointed with himself. He wouldn't want to make her uncomfortable.

She hasn't seen them, he hopes. She's already rolling away. He blinks his eyes open, peers up at the ceiling through his blurred vision.

He swallows. He can't just leave it like this. His heart won't let him. And as long as he doesn't make Clarke feel guilty or worried about hurting him, he figures a little honesty might be allowed.

He rolls over, rubs his face into the pillow, reaches out for her on instinct.

"This week has been great." He offers. That seems like a safe place to start.

"Yeah. Best week of my life." She admits, totally open and honest.

He can feel his heart thumping in his ears at that. _Best week of her life_? That's - that's promising, right?

"You want to do something like this again one day?" He asks, carefully light. "Maybe fly out and meet in some other part of Europe sometime? Athens next time round? We could be long-distance friends with European benefits." He jokes. He's always had a tendency to joke when he's feeling nervous about something.

There's a beat of silence. He could swear he's forgotten how to breathe. Has he just ruined everything? Has he completely misread her signals, completely misunderstood what she meant by _best week of my life_?

Then she speaks, and the pulse thrums in his ears even louder.

"What if I want more than that?" She asks, soft, voice shaking. "What if I've gone and fallen in love with you, Bellamy? What if - what if I told you I've started looking for jobs nearer you?"

He gasps, air rushing into his shocked lungs. "You're serious? I - I - that would -" He breaks off, stunned.

She laughs nervously. "I'm hoping that's a good reaction."

"The best." He reassures her, rolling until he's hovering above her, reaching down to kiss her earnestly. "You really mean it? You'll come live with me? We can have this every day?" He asks, delighted.

"Not sure we can have two cones of gelato, three orgasms and two major museums every day." She quips, grinning.

He laughs. He can't believe this is real. He's never in his life before got exactly what he dreamed of but didn't dare to ask for, he's pretty sure. Pure and utter happiness like this is not made for him.

Or at least, he used to think it wasn't.

"I love you." He tells her fervently. "I mean it. I know it's too soon. I know we've only known each other a few months. But - but it's been long enough, hasn't it? Long enough to know we challenge each other and take care of each other and bring out the best in each other?"

"Long enough to fall in love." She agrees easily.

"Then move in with me. Pack up your stuff as soon as you get home. We can make ends meet until you find work." He's spent a whole lifetime living on a budget. He seems to remember he used to resent that, but in this moment, it simply sounds like awfully good practice for the chance to live with Clarke.

She nods at once. She kisses him softly, laughs merrily into his lips.

"I love you." She tells him, sounding almost _proud_ , he thinks.

"I love you." He echoes.

"I love you." She repeats, grinning.

"I love -"

"Are we really going to be that couple?" She asks, laughing, as she falls back against the pillows and away from his lips.

He only smiles. He doesn't much mind whether they become _that couple_ , on balance. He doesn't mind anything much, as long as he's with Clarke.

….

Clarke supposes that the train ride from the centre of Rome to the airport ought to be grim.

The view out of the window certainly isn't much to write home about, not compared with the bright ocean and sky and fertile fields she saw down on the coast. And the train itself is not a pleasant one, all plastic seats and frazzled tourists fretting about the logistics of their travel.

But honestly? It's the best train ride of her life.

This doesn't feel like the end. It doesn't feel like the grim anticlimax to a glorious summer. It feels, instead, like the beginning of her future with Bellamy.

"What are you smiling about, Princess?" He asks her, jostling her with an arm slung carelessly about her shoulder.

"You." She says simply.

"Right back at you." He says with a grin.

That's the thing about Bellamy, Clarke has decided. That no matter what they're doing - traipsing through orchards with tourists or living the best week of their lives - there is always something worth smiling about, when they are together.

She didn't come here for the lemons. She seems to remember she came here to get away from home. But somehow, between lemons and love and laughter, she seems to have found a new home along the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
